Page 28 of Meet Me at Christmas
“What did you have for breakfast this morning?” the therapist prompted.
He paused, not responding right away, but just as Stella was beginning to lose hope for the day, he said, “Eggs and a…”
“A what?” Ms. Weixel asked.
A cup of coffee. That was your favorite. You have it every day, Stella said in her head.
His lips parted and turned Stella’s way as if he’d heard her inner thoughts, that look of attentiveness returning. The corners of his mouth twitched upward before he straightened them back out, his attention on Stella as if he could still read her mind. “A cup of coffee.”
Stella forgot everything for that one glorious moment as she saw a tiny bit of the old Henry peek through.
He cleared his throat and turned toward the therapist. “How will talking about my choice of breakfast help me remember my life?”
“There’s a relationship between thought and action,” the therapist said. “By changing our thoughts to positive ones, our actions become positive, our stress is reduced, and we’re more open to more robust progress on cognition.”
Stella typed Ms. Weixel’s explanation.
“So what are you working on?” Henry asked Stella across the room. “Some kind of study of crazy people?”
Stella gave him a look and then addressed Ms. Weixel who nodded for her to answer.
“Not a study. And definitely not about crazy people. I’m a writer for a magazine about brain health, and I’m supposed to beobserving, not talking.” She finished typing the summary of the therapist’s explanation.
“Do you knowwhyI can’t remember?” he asked, despite her statement about being incognito.
She shook her head and looked over at the therapist again, not sure if they should be using his therapy time to discuss his question.
“The documentation we received from Henry’s superior stated that Henry may have experienced frequent explosive artillery fire, and that caused what we call ‘commotio cerebri.’ It’s a puzzling condition that can trigger headaches, difficulty concentrating or sleeping, and oddly enough, amnesia. Henry struggled with small memory issues that they’d been documenting, but then during a training exercise—”
Henry cut her off, finishing the story. “The platform I was on gave out, and a large piece of artillery equipment fell on top of me.”
Ms. Weixel nodded. “It caused blunt trauma to the head and specialized memory loss.”
“Including how to do my job,” he added as if it pained him to say it. “So they sent me home.”
“But you do have a civilian job now,” the therapist pointed out. “You started a landscaping company when you got home, right?”
“Yes,” he said. “But there’s little to no work in the winter. And I want to do more than that anyway.”
“Like what?” Ms. Weixel asked.
“I don’t know.” His response was riddled with frustration, and he seemed to be closing up again right in front of Stella’s eyes.
Earlier, she’d been trying to think of ways not to be near him, but the distress on his face made her wish she could put her hand on his cheek and tell him she was there for him.
“Don’t you need to type all that?” he asked, eyeing her laptop.
Her skin prickled from being caught in her thoughts, and she forced herself back to her document where she inputted the term “commotio cerebri” to research more in depth later.
Henry stood up. “I think we’re done.”
The therapist checked the time on the clock, but finished or not, Henry was already striding toward the door.
“Do you mind if I ask, what the latest research is on how commotio cerebri is treated?” Stella asked Ms. Weixel before closing her laptop.
Henry stopped at the door. “By making me talk about eggs, apparently.”
Even though he’d barely given therapy a chance, and she still had nothing she needed for the article, his little joke gave her a flutter of happiness. She would’ve absolutely expected that answer from him.
